


Locks keep out only the honest

by Siff



Series: Doors, doors, so many doors... [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Criminal musketeers, Dark musketeers, Gen, I accidently deleted this, Woops, this is dark, you are warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 18:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1868424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siff/pseuds/Siff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By order of the King Louis XIII of the House of Bourbon, King of France, shall every man who is marked as a criminal and branded by the fleur de lis, be spared death in exchange for a lifetime of serving his Majesty, as sword and shield, should he show skills deem him worthy. He shall be a soldier and guard the King until God decides to forgive his crime, or death frees him from his duty. He shall wear the fleur de lis, not only on his skin, but also to everyone to see. He shall be called a Musketeer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locks keep out only the honest

**Author's Note:**

> I accidently delete this. Should be up and running now. Sorry about that.
> 
> Probably not as exciting as the summary says. This is far from my best work, but I just needed to get it out.

As the blood wells up from the wound, seeping through his fingers and running down his doublet and meets the dusty floor, he can only think that he has himself to blame.

Treville had always known deep down, that putting those three together would eventually come back and bite him. Or kill him. Or kill the King. He had always hoped it would never be the King. He supposed he should he happy it was him dying. For dying he is. He barely feels the pain, only the warmth of the blood between his rapidly cooling fingers, but he knows he’s dying. He will not spend the last minutes of his life naïve and ignorant. He has already spent too many years like that.

The pistol is left on the floor beside him and smell of burned gunpowder still hangs in the air, rips at his nose. He coughs and swallows down the blood that fills his mouth. Yes, he had seen it coming; he had just ignored the signs. Now they flash before him, parading for his eyes and taunting him with his mistakes.

It had always scared him how well they worked together. They are so different from each other. Different backgrounds and upbringings, nothing spoke for them to find together in mutual trust and respect. But they did, and Treville spent the years watching them carefully. When they snapped he wasn’t even surprised, it had been a long way coming. Especially with Aramis.

…… 

Aramis had been a typical case. Well as typical it can be. Two Musketeers were rarely the same.

Aramis had been serving in the royal army a few years, until he was dishonourable discharged and arrested, and sentenced to death for seducing, not only his commander’s wife, but also his two daughters. And rumoured, his son. Treville had heard about Aramis. His skills with a musket had long since reached his ears, so when the boy was arrested; Treville had made his usual request to the Cardinal and visited the Bastille.

Aramis was a bloody and bruised mess when Treville was lead into his cell. He was sitting on a small stool, leaning back against the wall with a wide grin on his still handsome face. His shirt had been ripped open by his right shoulder, where Treville could see a dirty bandage that carelessly covering his skin and his newly-made brand.

Treville told him his proposal and Aramis crooked his head to the side, staring intensely at him for a moment before accepting with a grin that more than unnerved Treville.

Still, the deals he had to make, added to the enormous amount of paperwork he had to fill to get Aramis out, had been worth it. The pauldron suited him and he wore it on his branded shoulder proudly. He was a better shooter and a better soldier than many men in Treville’s charge, and he earned his life tenfold by killing others in the name of the king with a coolness Treville tried to convince himself was merely the mind of a soldier. Then Savoy happened.

Treville hadn’t known. When confronting the Cardinal about it later, he had merely been shrugged off. “One less criminal in Paris is a joy. But twenty is a blessing.” He had left the office without a word. The Musketeers might be built from criminals, but they were courageous men who served their country with pride and dignity. Seeing those men lying dead in the snow had been hard, and for the first time since his own branding, Treville had doubted his loyalty. For a moment.

He wished it had never happened. Especially since Aramis – as always a wildcard – had been the only one to come out of it alive. And Marsac of course, who had fled the scene.

To the unknown eye the change was invisible, but Treville had dedicated his life to these men, he knew them as well as a dog would know a rabid wolf, and he saw the change in Aramis, saw it in his eyes. It wasn’t like he changed completely; it was more like an unknown closet door had been pushed open ever so gently, and the darkness behind it threatened to spill. Treville kept careful watch, but Aramis carried on his duty like always, and he told himself the door would never open, that Aramis would heal in time and then forget. He managed to convince himself, somewhat, but luckily a distraction came along that helped greatly.

……

They had shackled Porthos to the wall with enough chains to hold back an enraged bull. He wasn’t able to sit down, the chains had been too short, and after several days in the Bastille, the man was shaking where he stood. Treville had made the proposition and Porthos had grinned and only asked when he could start.

Porthos brand was old. Years even. Yet, he not committed more than petty crimes. Theft, forgery, a few burglaries here and there. He had avoided the law for years, until one day where he had stolen from the wrong man, a powerful man, who demanded a suitable punishment. Porthos was to lose his hands. The same ones that during his arrest had snapped three Red Guards’ necks and bashed in two of their skulls.

The look on the Cardinal’s face when Porthos was granted his life was alone worth the paperwork, but he was pleasant surprised when Porthos turned out to be more useful than Treville had ever expected. He excelled in hand-to-hand combat, and his skills with the sword and pistol, with a little training, soon brought him side by side with his best men. Including Aramis, who he seemed to befriend quickly. The two were rarely seen apart, and rumors started to spread amongst the men. So did bloody noses and broken limps.

It was already back then he should have seen it coming. He had been blind. Too thrilled to see the change in Aramis, as he laughed and trained with Porthos. To see the life return to him, and the cursed door close shut.

He had turned a blind eye to them. Their nearly weekly fights with the Red Guards, their drinking and gambling. Aramis’s women. All of it. He ignored how things like stolen possessions, brutal unnecessary deaths and burning buildings often marred their successful missions. He told himself it was accidents, risks that came with their trade. They were his best men after all. It was those two he sent out to the Le Fere estate to arrest the man they would soon know as Athos. His only comfort was that he couldn’t possibly have seen mistake in doing so.

……

Noblemen were not above the law, but since Athos was now the last living member of one of France’s oldest and purest families, he was left no choice, his blood was too valuable. Even without special skills or military knowledge, he was spared the rope, branded as a criminal and forced to enter Treville’s service.

Treville hadn’t wanted him, Athos had scared him. Handsome and young he had sat in his cell, his clothes stiff and dark with the dried blood of his brother and wife, staring out the barred window while humming a tune and twirling a little, blue flower between his fingers. Treville had sat down on the stool Athos had chosen to ignore, and told what would become of him.

Athos had stopped humming and turned his eyes to Treville. They were very blue and empty.

The next day, word arrived to Treville that Athos had tried to kill himself by wrapping his shackles around his throat. It took almost three weeks for the skin on his neck to heal, but the scars were still a gruesome reminder of how eager that man had been in his attempt. More than a few times in the following years, Treville would wish he had been successful.

……

Had Athos not been such an excellent swordsman, the other Musketeers would have skinned him alive. His background was kept secret, along with his name. They only knew he had killed, and that he wasn’t like them. They turned on him like a pack of wolves.

No one was more surprised than Treville when Porthos and Aramis stepped in between the other Musketeers and their new comrade. No one was foolish enough to take on those two, and Athos was left bruised and bloody, yet still standing undefeated. It didn’t take long for him to earn their respect, for fear, depended on how one looked at it.

Treville watched as Porthos and Aramis helped Athos out of the garrison yard and towards his room, feeling something not unlike dread gather inside him.

Two became three, and they were a success. His best men. Treville should have known.

……

He feels cold and wonders why he hasn’t died yet. Men rarely live this long with a bullet in their stomach. But then again, Aramis knows where to aim to postpone death.

He coughs and clenched his eyes shut against the pain. Why can’t he just die and get it over with? Let someone else live his burden. To drag men from the noose only to see them shot or cut down in battle. He welcomes the thought.

The sound of slow steps reaches his ear and he opens his eyes. Everything is so bright. The dust hangs in the rays of sun falling on through the window, and he can’t help a relieved sigh as a shadow blocks it. It’s Athos. He would know that shape anywhere.

“I’m sorry,” Athos says, no feeling to hear in his voice, “I’m sorry he got to you.”

Treville believes him. But still.

“Did you try to stop him?”

A heartbeat or two goes by.

“No.”

He can’t help but laugh. Of course not. Athos thinks only in white and black. He believes wronged should be righted, that Aramis should have his revenge. The thought sends a shiver through him.

“Will you go after Savoy now?” he asks and fears he already knows the answer.

Athos regards him in silence. He can’t see his face, but knows his expressions.

He closes his eyes, “You will not live long enough to see it done.”

“Maybe.”

He coughs again and groans as pain rips through his chest. How can it still hurt?

He hears Athos move and opens his eyes to see him kneel beside him. He can see his face now, pale as always, beard in need of a trimming. Eyes empty. Their eyes lock and Treville thinks he sees something, but another cough rags through his body he can barely breathe. Blood runs from his mouth.

Never has the sound of a dagger being drawn sounded so beautiful.

“I am sorry,” says Athos, “I never wished for this.”

“I know,” says Treville, his voice barely above a whisper. The taste of blood is making him sick. “Just do it quickly.”

Athos nods and places the cold steel against his throat. Treville finds his eyes again and sees the same thing as before. He wonders what it is.

“Take care of each other. You will be hunted men now.”

Again, Athos nods. “I am sorry.” He says.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wonders, D'Artagnan joined the Red Guards in this world, and would be sent out to hunt the boys. They manage to kill Savoy but looses Porthos as they try to escape. Later Aramis and Athos is captured and then executed. I’m weirdly happy that I don’t have to write that.
> 
> And it was after I’d written it I realized it sounded a lot like the Night’s Watch. That was not the intent. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading^^


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